


Hollywood

by Kahvi



Category: Sherlock (TV) RPF
Genre: Angst, F/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-04
Updated: 2013-10-04
Packaged: 2017-12-28 09:51:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/990628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kahvi/pseuds/Kahvi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ben has a lot of friends in Hollywood. Some are closer than others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hollywood

**Author's Note:**

> The woman mentioned is not exactly an original character, as she is based on a number of female friends Ben was linked to while in the US filming Star Trek. Pick your favorite; it doesn't really matter. That's not what the story is about.

He knows people in Hollywood, of course; it’s not that he doesn’t. There’s Hugh, though Ben can’t bring himself to bother him, and besides, they’ve never really had that sort of relationship. There’s Jonny, but all things considered, Ben would just rather stay quiet and hope they aren’t nominated for the Oliviers together. (He wills Roger to make it so, across the Atlantic, as though Roger had any say in the matter.) There are any number of people he’s worked with one time or another, his current co-workers included, but though Chris is disarmingly friendly, he is too American, and Simon too much like home; both of them combining to make Ben feel as sick for British shores as he’s ever been. Zoe and Zach seems equally keen to sleep with him, and that would potentially be disastrous in so many ways, depending on the person. It takes him a week to consider phoning, but then, mercifully, she phones him.

It isn’t a date, so the sex comes as something of a surprise. Then again, he doesn’t mind; how could he; she’s attractive and interesting and young and sweet, and so fucking _smart_. She’s refreshingly direct without being crass or pushy; not a fan who sees him through Sherlock’s distorting lens. He can laugh when she tells him she couldn’t pass up the opportunity now that they’re both single, because he knows there’s no delusion behind it; it is a joke, not an empty compliment. In short, she makes him relax, and Ben hadn’t known how much he’s missed that. He’s missed this sort of sex too – not that he’s ever slept with a friend, but what is a long term partner but an intimate friend, and that intimacy they _do_ share. There is some physical awkwardness, but they laugh that too away, and when she grabs his arse from behind and groans exaggeratedly that she’s so glad to finally get her hands on it, the joke is entirely funny, without the usual sting of uncertainty. He feels less self-conscious than he has in _years_. 

“So,” she says, as they share a ridiculously clichéd cigarette. “That was fun.”

He nods in agreement, sprawled on her sofa with his trousers open. She’s loosely wrapped in a satin robe that seems too big for her, but then again most things do on her waifish body. 

“You know this is all I want, right?”

He blinks, turns around to see her sardonic smile, and relaxes. “Oh. Of course.” He tries to return it, but it falls happily flat; he’s too content. 

She giggles. He joins her. They kiss yet again, and spend a few hours making stupid jokes and eating food he shouldn’t have. She urges him to eat, protesting that she can’t, herself, but there is nothing but bones to her, beautiful skin stretched across or not, and her denials make him lose any appetite he might have had. 

“You should get a girlfriend,” she tells him, when they’ve showered and he’s politely declined a stay in her bed (people do talk, sadly). 

“God, I hope you don’t mean you.”

“Of course I don’t!” She slaps his arm, quite hard (if there’s a bruise, he will remember it happily). “You’re lonely, though. It’s depressing; you’re like a lost puppy.”

“I’ve never been compared to a dog, before. Horses, yes. Sloths, yes. Even a shark, if you’ll credit it, but no dogs.” 

“Don’t forget otters.”

“What?” 

She blushes. “Never mind.” She bites her lip, holds the door he’s trying to get through, keeps him from getting any further out of it. “I wish you’d stop talking like that, Ben.”

“Why?”

She smiles in the dull front room light. “I love you, dickhead.” 

“Like a friend?”

“Like a friend.”

She kisses him goodbye, and he strolls into the night, losing the fight against a second cigarette. 

 

A rare, confused text arrives from Martin when he comes home – it would be Martin’s afternoon; something to that effect – with a link to The Metro’s site. Something about otters. Ben lets it lie until morning, when he reads it and pretends not to care.


End file.
